,"
he thought to himself, and he thought also, with a throb of angry
relief, that she had not killed Lot Gordon. "Come along home and red
up the house, and let's have no more fooling," he said, roughly, and
strode on faster and would not say another word, although Madelon
besought him hard to assure her that he believed her, and that Burr
should not be hanged, until they reached the Hautville house. Then he
turned on her and said, with keen sarcasm that stung more than a
whip-lash, "'Tis Parson Fair's daughter and not mine that should come
down the road in broad daylight a-bawling for Burr Gordon."

Madelon started back, and her face stiffened and whitened. She shut
her mouth hard and followed her father into the house. The great
living-room was empty; indeed, not one of the Hautville sons was in
the house; even Louis was gone. David took his axe out of the corner
and set out for the woods to cut some cedar fire-logs. Madelon put
the house in order, setting the kitchen and pantry to rights, going
through the icy chambers and making the high feather beds. In her own
room she paused long and searched again, holding up her red cloak and
her ball dress to the window, where they caught the wintry light, for
a stain of blood that might prove her guilt; but she could find none.

Madelon prepared dinner for her father and brothers as usual, and
when it was ready to be dished she stood in the doorway, with the
north wind buffeting her in the face, and blew the dinner-horn with a
blast that could be heard far off in the woods.

Presently her father emerged from under the snowy boughs with his axe
over his shoulder, and shortly afterwards Eugene and Abner came, in
Indian file, with their guns. Eugene was carrying a fat rabbit by its
long ears. Louis and Richard did not come at all. David asked sternly
of their brothers where they were, but neither Eugene nor Abner knew.
They had not seen them since David and Madelon left for Lot Gordon's
that morning.

Madelon set the food before her father and her brothers, and took her
place as usual, and ate as she might have filled a crock with milk or
cakes, tasting nothing which she put into her mouth. She did not
during the meal say another word concerning the tragedy in which she
was living, but there was a strange silent vehemence and fire about
her which seemed louder than speech. Now and then her father and her
brothers started and stared at her as if she had cried out. Two red
spo